


An Ode to Living

by Acacia Carter (xaandria)



Series: Long Way Down [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Friendship, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-06
Updated: 2011-09-06
Packaged: 2017-10-23 11:21:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xaandria/pseuds/Acacia%20Carter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is something about the exhilaration of being alive after staring death in the face that makes one burn to celebrate that defiance. Nothing changes when Neville has something to get off his chest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Ode to Living

It could be said that Harry was not entirely sober; in his defence, he was more sober than most of the others in the Three Broomsticks.

The party that had spontaneously erupted had attracted most of the students at Hogwarts; firewhisky had flowed only slightly less freely as the nut-brown ale and the Butterbeer that Harry suspected was slightly stronger than was customary. Ron was in a corner, a half-empty jug of some unidentifiable spirit threatening to fall from his loosening fingers; Harry was willing to bet that Hermione wouldn’t find him nearly as attractive with the drool, should she happen to wake up and lift her head from his lap.

It was not an unusual sight. Though the party had thrummed with the energy of defiance, of being really and truly alive, of having faced down death itself and been born again stronger, the student body was exhausted. Most of them had never faced anything more terrifying than waking up to a spot on their chin until this school year. Like a tightly wound spring allowed to release, the immense discharge of tension had been powerful and staggering—and now left several dozen very tired students in its wake.

Except Harry. For some inexplicable reason, his brain wouldn’t turn off. It was not for lack of trying—there had been a particularly fine example of firewhisky that had been foisted upon him that made him reconsider his original dislike of the spirit—but now that he had been sober and intoxicated and was winding his way back to sober again, the events of the previous few days were hammering at his skull, demanding entry, demanding to be examined.

He did not want to examine them yet. He wanted to stay in this warm glow, this feeling of being alive. He certainly did not want to dwell upon the notion that he had died for a short time there.

Again he scanned the room for Ginny. What he really wanted was her embrace, to fall into the circle of her arms and be held. Maybe then he’d be able to sleep. The small, sober part of his mind chided him. Madame Pomfrey had given her a sleeping draught, it reminded him. She’d taken her brother’s death very hard. She was in no position to offer comfort right now; if she hadn’t been in a sleep so deep _he_ would probably have been in the makeshift infirmary of the Great Hall comforting _her_. Assuming, of course, that Mrs. Weasley would let him anywhere near her.

He sighed and lay back against the wall, closing his eyes. He’d enjoy the warm glow by himself, then. No need to let deaths and injuries bother him now. He was alive, Voldemort was dead, the Death Eaters were scattered and being rounded up. The Minister of Magic had sent an owl as soon as he’d heard the news, offering Harry and many of the members of Dumbledore’s Army the opportunity to begin training as Junior Aurors on the spot. He didn’t know what he’d do about that yet. Thinking about tomorrow meant thinking about how he would cope with what had happened and—

No. Warm glow. His nose was a bit tingly. He smiled dreamily, not opening his eyes. He mentally made a note to thank Hermione for knowing whatever charm she’d done, some ward against hangovers or somesuch—the Alehead Charm?—he hadn’t been paying very close attention when she’d done it. He expected normally she’d scold him and Ron about overindulging in strong drink. It seemed she agreed with their excuse this night.

He cracked open one eye, peering through the lashes. The tavern was almost bereft of movement as people paired off, or not, and found a patch of wall to lean against and finally give into languid exhaustion.

Wait, there, on the stairs. More quickened movement. Someone was coming down the stairs, and doing a masterful job of it—no weaving, no uncertain foot placement.

Someone was entirely too sober.

Harry closed his eyes again. Not his problem if someone didn’t want to unwind.

The footfalls came closer, stopped in front of him. Harry opened one eye again.

“Hullo, Neville,” he said.

“Harry,” Neville said. He offered Harry a hand. Harry looked at it for a bit before realising that Neville wanted him to stand up.

“What’s this?” Harry asked a little thickly as he took it and Neville hauled him to his feet. Now that he was standing his head seemed to clear, just slightly, enough to notice that Neville looked decidedly...out of sorts.

“I have something to show you. Something to, ah, ask you about.” Neville looked almost sharply into Harry’s eyes. “Exactly how drunk are you?” he asked in a conversational tone that nevertheless had a slight bit of quaver to the longer vowels.

“Not so drunk as I could be,” Harry quipped.

“That’s hardly a concise statement,” Neville said wryly. “I’ve been watching you drown your sorrows all night.”

“Then you obviously haven’t been watching hard enough,” Harry countered, his mind clearing bit by bit as he was removed from his reverie. “I’ve been celebrating, not sorrowing.”

Neville pursed his lips and studied Harry’s face. “I suppose you were, at that.” He shrugged. “No matter. Come on, I want to show you something.”

Harry did his best to follow Neville up the stairs to a rather large suite; he wouldn’t have thought that the Three Broomsticks would have such large rooms. On the way up he only stumbled on one step and, he was proud to say, didn’t bark his shins on a single hallway table.

“And why are we here?” Harry asked as Neville shut the door. In response, Neville gestured at the low table in the middle of the room.

It was not bright in the room, but the flames in the fireplace danced upon the blood-red rubies of a silver sword, making it seem almost alive. Harry felt an inexplicable tenseness release from his shoulders.

“Ah,” he said. “That’s the Sword of Gryffindor.”

“I’d thought as much,” Neville said, “On account of it has Godric bloody Gryffindor on. Where did it come from, is what I’m getting at?”

Harry blinked.

“Oh, bother,” Neville sighed. “You’re going to be useless until I get this in you, aren’t you?”

“M’not useless,” Harry protested, but it did not stop Neville from uncorking a small vial he drew from his pocket. “Didn’t you see me on the stairs?”

“Yes, I did. You’d have thought we were on a boat. Here, drink this.” Neville offered the vial. Harry took it dubiously.

“What’s in it?” he asked, bringing it to eye level. It wasn’t very big; it was maybe the size of his thumb, and only half-full. If he let his eyes unfocus, there seemed to be two of them. Neat.

“Sandmoss Sap,” Neville replied promptly. “Instantly nullifies most intoxicants. I’m going to need you sober.” Neville’s somewhat nervous face split into an impish grin. “I promise I’ll liquor you up again later.”

“I’m an expensive date,” Harry cautioned. “Over the past several hours I seem to have acquired a taste for fine firewhisky.”

“You’ll get it,” Neville said intently. “Just please drink it.”

Harry shrugged. “Bottoms up.”

The liquid in the vial tasted of something wavering between lime juice and a freshly mown lawn, and filled his veins with ice for a split second as his belly burned. The room around him came into extremely sharp focus, wobbled a bit, and settled upon what Harry supposed was normal. The clarity that had been creeping upon his mind was now in full throttle, and he felt refreshed as he had not in days.

“Wow,” he said, for lack of anything else. “That’s...quite a concoction there.”

Neville shrugged modestly. “Gran always had Sandmoss Sap around,” he said dismissively. “She liked her Gillywater of evenings.” He gestured toward the table. “Now. That.”

“Right,” Harry said, blinking hard as he tried to acclimate himself to his newfound sobriety. “It’s Godric Gryffindor’s sword. A true Gryffindor can pull it from the Sorting Hat—don’t ask me how, I haven’t a clue—and use it in defence of Hogwarts. It was infused with basilisk venom a couple years ago, which made it one of the only things that could kill a Horcrux, which is probably why you drew it to kill Nagini.”

Neville’s brow wrinkled. “A Horcrux?”

Harry blinked. “Right. You weren’t in on that whole... _thing_.” He cracked his knuckles. “This may take a bit.”

He tried to make it as simple as possible, not being in an introspective or storytelling mood, but it _was_ slightly rewarding to see Neville’s face blanch.

“So you had a bit of Voldemort in you,” Neville said finally.

“A bit, yeah.”

“And you didn’t feel like sharing that with anyone?”

“As you recall, I was already accused of being possessed by the tosser about once a term,” Harry pointed out.

“True.” Neville nodded slowly. “So...” he glanced up from studying his knuckles, meeting Harry’s eyes with an uncharacteristically shrewd look. “...had Voldemort come after me instead, I’d have been the Horcrux.”

Harry blinked again. “I’m...pretty sure you’re not supposed to know that part,” he said slowly.

“I worked it out,” Neville said drily. “Has anyone ever told you that you talk in your sleep? I must have heard that prophecy some dozen times. ‘Born to those who have thrice defied him? Born as the seventh month dies?’ Not hard to figure it out, eh? If he’d picked me instead of you...”

“I don’t think it’s that simple, Neville,” Harry said seriously, fully meeting Neville’s intent gaze. “There’s no telling how things would have turned out. He could have...he could have killed your parents in the sitting room, and there’d be no one to protect you, and you’d have died too, game over. Or everything could have happened the same way but you’d have been raised as a hero in the wizarding world—”

“But instead, I was just Neville Longbottom,” Neville said a bit acidly, switching his gaze to his hands clasped in front of him. “You got to be the hero.”

“Hold on,” Harry said, leaning forward. “Am I hearing you correctly? _Just_ Neville Longbottom?” Harry reached out and grasped Neville’s shoulder, meeting Neville’s eyes as he glanced up. “Neville Longbottom led Dumbledore’s Army against Death Eaters. Neville Longbottom hid student refugees under the Death Eaters’ noses. Neville Longbottom drew the Sword of Gryffindor and killed the giant snake that held the last of Voldemort’s soul, which meant he could finally be killed for good.” Harry squeezed. “If that doesn’t make Neville Longbottom a hero, I don’t know what does.”

Neville let a small smile escape before biting his lip. “Thanks, Harry. You...you’ve been a good friend to me. Better than I...” He shook his head. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Harry said, leaning back in his chair.

The new silence pulsed in the room. The fire crackled. Harry’s stomach threatened to growl. Neville looked...twitchy. He ran his hand through his disheveled hair, glanced at the clock, glanced at the window, glanced at the door. Harry got the distinct feeling that Neville was looking at everything in the room but Harry.

After several moments of this, Harry took a deep breath.

“Spit it out, Neville. You’ve got something else to say.”

Neville jumped as Harry said it. “I...yes. Yes. I do.” He stood up, walked over to a trunk, and then stopped. “Harry?” he asked. “You...wouldn’t think less of me if I told you something, right?”

“You’re my friend, Neville,” Harry said slowly, puzzled. “Unless you’re about to tell me that you kick puppies for fun, I don’t think I could think less of you.” Though it had been meant to reassure, Neville looked far from relieved as he opened the trunk and pulled out a shallow basin.

“Do you know what a Pensieve is?” he asked.

Only the dire seriousness on Neville’s face kept Harry from laughing aloud. “I’m familiar with them.”

“Good,” Neville said. “Because showing you is going to be a whole hell of a lot easier than telling you.” He walked back over to the low table and placed the basin next to the sword, thumbing open another vial taken from his pocket and pouring the familiar silvery smoke-liquid into it.

Harry leaned forward, but before lowering his face into the bowl of the basin, looked intently at Neville. “Are you sure you want to show me this?” he asked seriously.

Neville gave a short nod, though it looked like he was steeling himself. “I have to.”

Harry took a deep breath and lowered his face into the swirling mist.

* * *

“Your parents were two of the finest Aurors I ever had the privilege to work with,” Moody said seriously as he plunked a teacup in front of Neville.

Harry looked around, gathering his bearings. He was in the Defence Against the Dark Arts office, and it was filled to the brim with various Dark Detectors. Obviously this was in his fourth year at Hogwarts, and just as obviously this was Neville’s memory of the private meeting with Moody—Crouch Junior, rather—after seeing the terrible effects of the Cruciatus Curse.

The office seemed somehow more cluttered than when Harry had been in, however. He couldn’t place his finger on it immediately, and instead went to stand by Neville’s shoulder as the false Moody stumped over to the opposite side of the desk.

“Thank you, sir,” Neville said in a somewhat trembling voice, noticeably higher-pitched than the tenor Harry was now accustomed to. Harry could see that he was focusing intently on the tea in his cup.

“I’m sorry for what happened to them,” Moody said gruffly. “It was a terrible thing. But you couldn’t keep your eyes closed to it forever. You had to know what happened, else you’ll never have a chance to learn from it.”

Neville nodded dumbly.

“Look at me, boy,” Moody said, not unkindly. Neville glanced up. “I’m not telling you this to be cruel. You’re a young man, almost an adult...”

Moody’s voice trailed off, but his lips kept moving. Harry looked around in surprise. The rest of the memory had become...hazy. He looked back at Neville, whose eyes were wide. His hands were gripping the robes at his knees so tightly the knuckles were white.

Harry followed Neville’s shocked gaze to the mirror behind Moody.

It was not the Foe-Glass Harry remembered from his own visits to Moody’s office. It was much more ornate than that, with a gilded frame that Harry did not have to read to know it said “Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.”

And in the mirror, Harry saw...himself.

Being...attacked? By someone in black robes?

Harry looked more closely.

No, being embraced. The Harry in the mirror was stroking the hair and neck of the person whose face was buried in his robes. Then Harry reached up to tilt the person’s chin up to reveal...

Harry didn’t know why he was surprised to see Neville’s face as his image in the mirror kissed him tenderly, then with more hunger. It was just slightly surreal to watch as his image’s fingers tangled themselves in Neville’s hair as suddenly they were on a horizontal surface, kissing with a great deal more passion...

“Longbottom?”

Neville jumped in his chair and looked guiltily at Moody, blood simultaneously rushing to his cheeks and draining away, leaving him somewhat blotchy. Moody’s magical eye rolled back in its socket, and then he chuckled.

“Ah. Admiring the fabled Mirror of Erised, are you?”

Mortified, Neville glanced back at the mirror. Harry did too, and swallowed hard. The black robes had vanished. Harry was fairly certain that he had not had that physique when he was fourteen.

“What...is it?” Neville finally ventured, swallowing.

“It’s a mirror that reflects your deepest desire back at you,” Moody growled. “Often it’s something even you didn’t know you wanted. It’s a good chance for introspection on what is important to you, which is why I currently have it.”

“Can you...see...?” Neville trailed off. His face was now thoroughly flushed and if Harry recognized the way Neville was shifting in his seat, chances were blood was rushing elsewhere as well.

“Of course not,” Moody said. “Only the viewer can see their own desire. Don’t worry, boy. What you see is private.” Moody lifted his teacup and took a long sip, studying Neville intently. Neville didn’t notice, as he was currently studying the mirror intently. Harry couldn’t help but look back at the scene unfolding, suddenly very aware of his body responding in much the same way Neville’s was.

“Shall I cover it?” Moody asked gruffly. “It seems to be distracting you a fair bit, whatever it is.”

“Eh? Oh. Um.” Neville tore his eyes away from the mirror. Moody nodded and took out his wand. A sheet materialized above the mirror and floated down over it, obscuring Harry’s view of Neville’s face in an expression of delight and passion.

“Professor Sprout tells me you’re a very promising Herbology student,” Moody said as the sheet settled. “I have a book here that you’d probably be interested in...”

The scene began to dissolve around Harry, and he panicked slightly. What was he supposed to say? He had no time to pull himself together before...

* * *

Harry pulled his face from the Pensieve, face burning. It didn’t take long to notice that the physical reaction he’d had in the Pensieve had translated quite well to his actual body. He coughed and moved his arm to cover the offending bulge, wishing he was wearing wizard robes instead of the Muggle clothes he’d been traveling in.

He really couldn’t avoid it any longer. He glanced up to look at Neville, sitting across the table from him.

The blood had drained from Neville’s face. His fingers were knit together, but were pressing against each other so hard that they looked to be made from bone. Though he was making eye contact almost hungrily, it seemed as though he were looking through Harry rather than at him.

He looked terrified. Neville, who had stood before Voldemort and defied him, who had taken beatings and worse from the Carrow twins, looked frightened in a way Harry had never seen before.

The silence was a nearly tangible thing, stretching between them. It almost seemed to hush the crackling of the flames in the hearth the longer it stretched and the more powerful it became. Harry felt that if one of them didn’t break it soon, it would smother them and they would sit in silence forever.

He cleared his throat. It seemed unnaturally loud.

“Um,” he said.

Neville’s face fell. Harry’s heart lurched in his chest. How could one inarticulate sound make someone look so wounded?

He had to move, stand up, walk around. He rose and walked to the window, turning his back on the scene, on Neville’s ghastly expression of pain. He placed both hands on the windowsill and leaned his forehead against the cool pane of glass.

What in the name of Merlin’s pants was he supposed to say?

“We’re still friends,” he said suddenly. His voice seemed to thunder in the room. “That doesn’t change. At all.”

His heart was racing, thudding loudly in his ears. “I’m just—”

A hand grasped his shoulder and spun him around. Another hand cupped the back of his head and neck, firmly but still oddly gentle. Harry didn’t have time to respond before Neville’s mouth was crushed against his in a desperate kiss that, before he fully realized it, he was returning.

Before Harry had a chance to process this information, Neville tore himself away and took a step back, breathing just slightly more heavily.

“I had to do it...had to see what it was like...before you could go,” Neville said. “Forgive me.” He backed slowly toward his chair and sank down, cupping his face in his hands. “I know I crossed a line. I’m sorry. You...you can leave now. I’m sorry.”

Harry stood frozen by the window, stunned. His face stung slightly where the stubble on Neville’s cheeks had scratched him. He could still feel the touch of Neville’s hand on the back of his neck. He could still taste Neville’s tongue, still feel Neville’s chest pressed up against his.

Woodenly, he began to make his way to the door.

He paused with his hand on the knob.

He felt... _alive_.

His blood hadn’t cooled one whit from when he’d been in the Pensieve; rather, it was at a fever pitch after the reality of the kiss. He remembered the expression on Neville’s face in the mirror, translated it to the slimmer, older face of the Neville that sat in shame on the chair behind him.

Harry was alive. Neville was alive. They were alive and they were whole, dammit—they weren’t damaged from the multitude of times they’d faced down death and evil, not knowing whether they were up to the task. They would never have to face that terrible doubt again. And here, here was a chance to prove to the world, if it cared to pay attention, that they were not beaten, that they could create something good and whole and passionate despite what had been happening all of their lives.

Harry took his hand off the doorknob and turned around. He walked slowly to the chair where Neville still sat, hiding his face.

He knelt in front of the chair and gently pulled Neville’s hands away from his face.

Harry swallowed, looking up ever so slightly. When had Neville gotten so tall, anyway? When had he lost the soft edges that had made him look so young, and gotten this new, angular face?

“I’ve known you for seven years,” Harry said, slowly and deliberately. “And I can honestly say I’ve never, ever looked at you in quite this light before.”

He took a deep breath, watching a tiny flame of hope ignite in Neville’s eyes. He leaned forward so they were forehead-to-forehead.

“It suits you.”

* * *

The bedsheets and pillows had somehow ended up on the floor, but the two young men clearly had no need of them. Harry lay on his back, Neville absently tracing patterns on his shoulder.

It was dark, the only light radiating from the coals of the fireplace. The day had passed in a languourous haze, punctuated by flashes of hot passion that had escalated past what either of them had ever had any reason to expect, but had felt so right in the heat of the moment that neither had hesitated, aside from assuring one another that yes, they wanted this. There had been pain, but a delicious pain—a shared pain—a pain fueled by an ardency to fulfill one another that made it seem more triumph than hurt.

He wondered if anyone had tried to look for them.

He wondered what he would have done if anyone had found them.

He opened his eyes and turned his head. Despite the activities of the day, it was still a slight shock to see Neville’s face next to his, in such intimate proximity.

“I...have to get going,” he said.

Neville nodded. “I know.”

Clothing was found and separated and pulled over heads, and suddenly Harry and Neville stood facing each other, feeling awkward for the first time.

“This won’t happen again,” Neville said. Harry opened his mouth. “No,” Neville said, more sternly. “It won’t. You’ve got your girl, or you will, once you go and get her. As you said before...this doesn’t change anything.”

“That was before,” Harry protested. “This was...this makes it different.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Neville tried to glare, but his eyes softened. He kissed Harry’s lips softly, then rested his forehead against Harry’s. “When I think about it, I’ve probably been in love with you since we were both twelve and never really knew it until today,” he said softly, looking deeply into Harry’s eyes. “But this will never happen again. It can’t.” He smiled, forced a laugh. “I can’t believe it happened this time.”

“I’m not—I’m not ashamed of it, if that’s what you’re worried about—”

“—And how are you going to tell Ginny that you’re not going to be with her because you’ve chosen me instead?” Neville asked, bringing Harry up short. “How are you going to tell Ron that you’ve decided, after one day of spontaneous passion, that you’re going to choose Neville Longbottom over his sister?”

“I...” Harry felt his heart sink.

“Exactly,” Neville said. He sighed. “We might both love you, but you love her. This?” He gestured vaguely toward the bed. “This was, without a doubt, special. It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me—but it will not happen again.” He kissed Harry’s forehead, then stepped back. “I got to have you, all to myself—all of you—for a few hours. I didn’t expect that to happen. That will last me the rest of my life.” He thrust his hand out. “Friends?”

Harry grasped it. “Always.” He tried to match Neville’s hearty smile, though he felt slightly hollow. Something in Neville’s eyes suggested his smile wasn’t entirely truthful, either.

“That’s...not to say that I won’t be around if you and Ginny have a falling-out,” Neville added as an afterthought.

Harry shook his head and laughed, clapping Neville on the shoulder.

“I seem to remember a promise to buy me very expensive firewhisky,” he said as he opened the door. “Shall we go see what Madam Rosmerta has behind the counter?”

Neville gestured out the door. “Lead the way.”


End file.
